


A Snow of Feathers

by Mertiya



Category: Schneewittchen | Snow White (Fairy Tale), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angel!Lock, F/F, Genderswapped characters, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Magic Meta, Meta, Snow White - Freeform, Sorry Sarah, Sundry other fairytales making odd cameos, Weird meta stuff, You Have Been Warned, and non-genderswapped ones, definitely a bit odd, fairytales - Freeform, or possibly more, two universes you see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson dies in Afghanistan, but his story does not end there.  Instead, it becomes entwined, not only with the fate of a certain consulting detective, but also with another universe, something of a fairytale universe, if we are to be honest.</p><p>There is something which must be noted about fairytales.  There are two ways for the villain to win.  In the first case, the tale may be a tragedy, but in such cases the villain’s victories are generally short-lived in any case.  But, if the villain were to realize that she is the villain, that fairytales always proceed from 'Once upon a time' to 'Happily ever after,' and if such a villain were to take matters into her own hands, to find one loose thread in the tapestry of fate and snip it…</p><p>Well, then, happily ever after might no longer be assured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notthewhizkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthewhizkid/gifts).



> Okay, I was going to wait to post this until it was complete, which it very nearly is, but it fits so absolutely perfectly with the latest Let's Write Sherlock that I just couldn't help myself. The prologue is *almost* standalone, though. I hope you like it!

**Prologue**

            Once upon a time, there lived a king and a queen who were very much in love.  It is true that the queen was occasionally irritated by the king’s romantic gestures toward her, but generally they muddled along rather nicely, until it became obvious that the queen was expecting her first child.  The king panicked, the queen reassured him that this was the sort of thing that happened quite often, as a general rule, and it took her a long time to calm him.   As a result, it was quite traumatic when their little girl died before she’d even drawn breath.

            The king went into depression, spiraling downhill immediately, losing himself in mindless pleasure, leaving the queen to manage the kingdom mostly on her own.  The queen, who had always been more intellectual than emotional, withdrew further into herself, becoming diamond-hard and diamond-brilliant.  The king and queen rarely spoke, and it was rarer still for them to share a bed.  Therefore, it was a surprise (and perhaps not altogether a pleasant one) when the queen discovered she was pregnant for a second time.

            She sat in front of the window, watching the snowy sky outside, considering what she ought to do, but eventually, she decided she would have to tell the king as soon as possible, and, much as she disliked the idea, place her new child’s fate in the hands of God.  As she was considering, she pricked her finger on her sewing needle; three drops of blood fell from the finger onto the white cloth she was embroidering.  As she’d been thinking about fate and wishes and children, she toyed idly with the idea of wishing for a (living) child with hair like ebony and a complexion like the red blood on the snowy-white cloth.  But then, being a wise queen, and knowing already that her health had been left delicate by the labor that resulted in the death of her first child, she wished (and perhaps it was illogical, but she believed it might do some good for all that) that her child would have an intellect as startling as the crimson on the white, and as cold and sharp as the snowflakes raining down outside.

            After nine months, she duly gave birth to a little girl.  She was a little worried when the babe was first placed in her arms, and she saw the black hair and pale skin, but her anxiety was relieved when the cool, grey eyes opened, and the queen knew that within her child resided a spirit which would look with contempt on the baser emotions.  The queen knew that she would need such armor, so she bent and kissed the child, and then she passed her to the king, and then she died.

            The little girl grew like a weed.  When she was five years old, she and the youngest daughter of the castle guard became comrades.  Not friends, as the young princess was adamant that she had no friends, but comrades.  They tolerated each other’s company, though they grew apart as they grew older, but it was little Alexia who gave her the name that she kept as she grew.

            Everyone had persisted in calling her princess, and the princess said, pointing to her favorite storybook, “I’m not a princess, princesses have bright hair.”

            Alexia had looked back at her and said, “Your hair is as bright as a crow’s wing, Princess.”

            Since then, the princess, to her chagrin, had been known as Princess Bright-hair, and no matter how she protested, no matter how often she laid her sharp tongue out as a weapon against those who dared to call her by the appellation, it was no good.  She was, to put it mildly, stuck with it.

            When Princess Bright-hair was twelve, she met Princess Abigail at a ball, which her father’s councilors were holding to tempt their king back into matrimony.  It was not a success in that regard, but when Princess Bright-hair contemptuously told Princess Abigail that Abigail wanted to be a soldier, that she was sneaking off and learning to ride and fight in the early morning hours when she was supposed to be praying, that she had an older brother who bedded not the maids but the guardsmen and who was rather too fond of his wine of an evening, Princess Abigail simply blinked at her and asked her how she could possibly know all that.

            Princess Bright-hair was, to be honest, somewhat startled, but never one to be put off, she quickly rattled off the tell-tale signs, and Princess Abigail surprised her once again.

            “That…was amazing,” she told Bright-hair firmly, and for the first time, Bright-hair had the feeling of being appreciated.  She was not entirely sure she approved of it, but she approved of it enough to say, in some surprise, “That’s not what people usually say.”

            “What do they usually say?” Abigail asked with a grin.

            “ ‘Piss off,’” Bright-hair replied, a little challenging.  A princess ought to be scandalized by such language, but Abigail merely snickered lightly, and then asked if Bright-hair wanted to dance, and Bright-hair, much to her surprise, found herself saying yes.

            They danced for three more hours, after which, Princess Bright-hair slid away and explained she was busy tracking down one of the guardsmen, who was responsible for having poisoned three others.  In the ensuing events, Bright-hair nearly found herself poisoned by the guardsman, and Abigail proved that her early-morning attempts to learn swordsmanship had not all been in vain.

            Flushed and panting over the body of the poisoner, Abigail looked suddenly small and unassuming.  Therefore, it was quite natural for Bright-hair to catch her by the back of the head and press their lips together, even if they were both female.  After all, Abigail’s older brother preferred men, so perhaps they’d both swapped normal preferences.  They kissed for a few minutes longer, and Abigail put her hands on Bright-hair’s waist; then Abigail’s father found them.

            There was shouting.  Bright-hair didn’t like shouting; her own father did not shout, though many other men and women at the palace did.  Accusations were hurled, such as temptress, and scarlet woman, and several other phrases which Bright-hair found both amusing and remarkably inaccurate.  The result of the night was that Abigail was taken away, with the promise that she should never see Bright-hair again.  Bright-hair tossed her decidedly not-bright hair and declared that she did not care, but she was certainly quieter than ever, her razor-sharp tongue more ready than ever to lash out, and Alexia was certain that she walked in one night to find the princess crying into her pillow.

            When Bright-hair was fifteen, her father fell madly in love with a young woman of an age with Bright-hair.  Jaye had dark hair and milk-white skin, and was, by many counts, more beautiful than Bright-hair’s mother had been, more beautiful even than Bright-hair herself was.  Bright-hair, who cared nothing for beauty, was inclined to turn her nose up at the rumors, but when it came to her ears that Jaye was also exceedingly well known for her intellect, she began to be a little more interested in the young woman.

            By this time, no doubt, astute readers will have deduced the bare bones of this story and the worn old track it will take.  Jaye, the wicked stepmother (though this wicked stepmother is not only jealous of her husband’s child but also passionately desirous of her), who, upon the death of the king (perhaps engineered by her own hand), will bring a vendetta against his innocent (at least in a carnal sense) daughter.

            Bright-hair will run into the forest, where she will live among a group of dwarves (chastity safe not only because the dwarves are honest men, but because, as one of them will put it, “You couldn’t get me to touch that with a barge-pole, mate, not even kidding.”)  Jaye will make three attempts on her life, seducing her (perhaps even literally) with greater and greater promises, culminating in the offer of an apple from the Tree of Knowledge, which she knows Bright-hair cannot refuse.

            Bright-hair’s apparent death, the arrival of the Princess Abigail, who kisses her alive, the two of them take on and defeat the wicked stepmother, and everyone lives happily ever—

            There is something which must be noted about fairytales.  There are two ways for the villain to win.  In the first case, the tale may be a tragedy, but in such cases the villain’s victories are generally short-lived in any case.  But, if the villain were to realize that she is the villain, that fairytales always proceed from _Once upon a time_ to _Happily ever after_ , and if such a villain were to take matters into her own hands, to find one loose thread in the tapestry of fate and snip it…

            Well, then, happily ever after might no longer be assured.

            Consider, for instance, the following scenario:  if the Princess Abigail were to die before ever meeting the Princess Bright-hair, who would there be to kiss Bright-hair back to life in the end?

            Exactly no one, that’s who.


	2. A Dream of Death

            One minute John Watson was crowded in the back of an army jeep, snickering with Weathers over a stupid joke, the next there was a roaring sound in his ears and the jeep was pitching sideways in a fiery inferno.  IED, he thought with the part of his brain that wasn’t being sent out his ears.  He hit the ground and pain flared through his left leg—sprain or break, he couldn’t tell which—and then he was rolling, and he was clear and dazed and surprised to be alive.  The stutter of gunfire brought him to his knees, clutching blindly for his weapon, for his first aid kit, but he couldn’t seem to find them.

            “John!” a voice called faintly.  “Help me!”  Somehow Weathers had been flung clear as well, but Kittredge, who had been in the driver’s seat, was trapped in the twisted remains of the car, and fire was already licking down toward him.  John pulled himself to his feet, somehow, grateful for the adrenaline which made it impossible to feel what would surely shortly turn into screaming agony in his leg.  He began to limp toward his two friends.

            Something kicked up a puff of sand just feet away, and he was feeling really stupid, really dopey, because he didn’t know what it was, until Weathers yelled, “Snipers!  Get down!”

            Then he simply stood, his brain ticking slowly, too slowly, as if it were slogging through black tar.  He’d never frozen like this; it wasn’t fear, it was some nameless feeling as if a puppeteer had grabbed the strings of his body and jerked him upright, unable to move.  “John!” a voice shouted, and it wasn’t Weathers or Kittredge; it was a voice he didn’t recognize, and then there was a one-two-three thud of pain, first his shoulder, then his chest and leg in quick succession, and he blinked in surprise and looked down at the blood blooming down the front of his shirt.

            Sinking to his knees seemed to take a surprisingly long time, and there was very little pain (shock, adrenaline, endorphins, body shutting down—not much point in pain anymore is there?).  The sand came up to meet him, and he lay and watched it turning slowly red, as he thought, Please, God, let me live, even though he was a doctor, and he knew it was too late.

            His last breaths bubbled from his lungs in a desperate confusion, and he had the strange sensation of someone desperately pulling his head into their lap, followed by a single glimpse of a pair of grey eyes, before everything faded away into a rapidly-darkening cold.

~

            In Sherlock’s dream, the sun was bakingly hot, and the sand very uncomfortable beneath his bare feet.  He had the uncomfortable feeling of being generally aware that he was dreaming, but his thoughts were still not entirely lucid.  Nonetheless, a glance at the sky, the sun, and the military jeep screeching toward him told him Afghanistan, probably, and then he had no time to move aside, but the jeep swept through him as if he weren’t there.  He caught a brief glimpse of the occupants—dark-haired driver, two men in the back, one fair, one dark, guns, laughter, before the jeep was speeding onward.

            Moments later, there was an explosion.   IED, not particularly powerful, but powerful enough to send the vehicle careening onto its side in an orange blossom of flame.  Two men were flung free, one of them landing badly on his leg.  That would be a bad break, Sherlock noted, and began strolling toward them, flooded with a touch of interest mixed with a strange tinge of foreboding.  He also noted the good cover that a set of low, rolling hills nearby gave.  Probably an ambush, then, though more than likely not meant for this particular jeep, just set up to catch anyone who happened to drive by.  Sure enough, as the man with the broken leg stood up (even though he probably couldn’t feel the pain, Sherlock was impressed—the half-glimpsed medical bag told him the man was a doctor who more than likely knew how much damage he could do from standing on the leg now), bullets struck the sand a few feet to his left.

            Sherlock expected him to drop immediately; as a seasoned soldier, he should know better than to make himself a target, but he didn’t.  He simply stood there, swaying slightly, even as his uninjured companion shouted to him. 

            Sudden, mysterious panic swept across Sherlock.  He was about to die, this man, he was about to die before Sherlock even knew who he was, and though he didn’t know why that should be important, it was.  A name, a meaningless syllable he couldn’t even bring to mind seconds later, was ripped from his throat, just before the triple shots rang out, and the man collapsed to the sand with blood blossoming on shoulder, back, and leg.

            Sherlock raced across the sand.  By the time he reached him, the man on the ground was shuddering, breaths bubbling forth from ruined lungs, and as he pulled him toward himself, their eyes met for a brief moment before the man’s blue eyes frosted over like water turning to cloudy ice, and he died.

            Sherlock woke up sprawled across his armchair, an odd pain in his chest.  He heaved himself to his feet, and for once, it was a long time and three nicotine patches before he felt properly awake.

~

            John groaned and blinked.  He couldn’t possibly be dead; his shoulder and leg hurt like hell.  It just wouldn’t be fair if—

            “No, I’m afraid that you are quite deceased.”

            Sand.  There was sand underneath him, but it was dark, an inky-dark too thick to see through.  Middle of the desert after nightfall, then.  Someone switched on an electric torch and shone it directly in his eyes.

            “Fuck,” John groaned.  “Get that thing out of my eyes.”

            “As you wish.”  The torch was redirected downwards to illuminate (after a moment once John’s eyes, which had been busy screaming at him, had adjusted) a pair of slick black shoes, which looked expensive, and the bottom half of a black umbrella.

            “Do you feel well enough to stand?  I don’t know how much time we have.”

            “Give me a minute.”  John was pretty sure this had to be some sort of bizarre dream, or possibly one of his mates playing an elaborate joke.  “Can we have some more light?” he asked, figuring he might as well play along until he could figure out what was going on.

            “My apologies, I forget that the young don’t have such honed vision sometimes.”  The electric torch clicked off and was replaced swiftly by a lantern.  “Up, now, if you please,” said the genially-smiling man who was revealed, and John forced himself to his knees and then to his feet, his leg and shoulder protesting, and a strange weight across his back nearly unbalancing him.  He gasped as a bone-deep ache seared through his chest, and he pressed an arm across it.

            “You’ll get used to it,” said the mysterious man.  “I’m afraid the pain will be with you for some time.”

            “What the fuck is this?” John demanded.  “What did you mean I’m dead?”

            “You’re with the angels now, Doctor Watson.”  The man lifted the lantern higher, and the yellow light reflected off of a pair of large, silvery wings.  “Quite literally.”

            “The fuck?”

            “I am aware that such a transition is traumatic, particularly in your case, but I would appreciate it if you made an effort.”

            John pressed his fingers to his forehead.  “An effort to what, exactly?  You haven’t told me a bloody thing, other than that I’m apparently dead.  I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing, or what I’m doing, for that matter.”

            The man sighed dramatically.  “I have to say, I was expecting someone a little more…intellectual.  Ah well, never mind.”  He held out a hand.  “My name is Mycroft Holmes.  I occupy a minor position in the celestial hierarchy.  Walk with me, would you?”

            John gritted his teeth.  His leg had settled down to sending gentle radiating pulses of pain throughout his entire body.  “Yes, all right,” he said, rather ungraciously.  ‘Someone a little more intellectual’  rankled.  “I am a doctor, you know,” he said as they began to walk.  “I’m not stupid.”

            Holmes made a noncommittal noise.  “Not stupid, certainly, but the word I used was ‘intellectual,’ and that you most certainly are not.”

            John decided to let it go at this point.  “Care to tell me what’s going on, or are we going to dance circles around each other for the next hour?”

            “As I said, my name is Mycroft Holmes.  Up until my untimely death, I occupied a minor but indispensible position with the British Government.  I leave behind a grieving mother and younger brother about whom I deeply concerned.  Particularly since it seems that he is in great danger.”  Mycroft twirled the umbrella as he continued.  “I am afraid you are not privy to all the information, John, but suffice it to say that you should not have died yesterday.  You should have survived, been invalided out, and eventually made your way to London, where you would have taken up a flatshare with my sibling.”

            “What do you mean, should?” John queried.  Even as he spoke, he remembered the eerie feeling of struggling against something to lie himself flat and escape the snipers.

            Mycroft waved a hand.  “Complicated, bureaucratic hassle.  We’ll just go with the term ‘fate’ or possibly ‘narrative causality’ and leave it at that.”

            John snorted.  “OK,” he said.  “For the sake of expediency, let’s say I believe you and I understand what you just said.  What does that mean?”

            Mycroft pursed his lips and looked up.  “Primarily, it means that Sherlock Holmes is in a great deal of danger from an enemy whom not even I am able to identify.  Furthermore, there is a good chance that, without you, he will shortly die as well, and I have it on good authority that that would not be optimal for the universe at large.”

            “But I’m dead,” John pointed out.  “So what am I supposed to do about it?”  He wasn’t sure when he’d started believing what Mycroft was saying, but it might have been sometime around when he’d surreptitiously put a hand up to his own back and encountered feathers.

            “Really, John, I would have thought it was obvious.  You’re going to be his guardian angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the actual main story, which, yes, is primarily about our John and Sherlock--or close to them. Hope you enjoy! :)


	3. First Meetings

            Sherlock was bent over the microscope when Molly entered, carrying his cup of coffee.  He didn’t bother to look up, but he heard her footsteps approach and smelled the aroma of black coffee.  She halted suddenly a few steps inside the doorway.

            “Oh hullo,” she said in an awkwardly bright voice.

            “Molly,” Sherlock said impatiently.  “The coffee, if you please—and who are you talking to?”

            There was a long pause, a little, indrawn breath.  “Oh-oh,” Molly exclaimed.  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just…” she trailed off.  “Eyes playing tricks on me, I suppose.  Here’s your coffee.”

            She set it down on the workbench beside him and retreated a few steps, but didn’t leave.  Well, as long as she was here, she might as well make herself useful.

            “Phone,” he said, putting out his hand.

            “Oh, I, um, I think I left it downstairs.”  There was a long pause, as Sherlock kept his hand outstretched.  “I’ll just—go get it, shall I?”

            As the door shut behind her, Sherlock was assaulted with a sudden conviction that there was someone else in the room, a totally illogical conclusion that sat uneasily with him, but which was impossible to banish.  Growling in frustration, he looked up and scanned the room, but saw nothing.  It couldn’t be anything.  It was the lighting.  One of the bulbs had burned out and no one had replaced it yet; Sherlock had often noticed how much the shape of a room changed with unfamiliar lighting.  One drooping potted plant in the corner (Molly’s touch, surely no one else would be so foolish as to try to make a chemical laboratory feel homier by means of the addition of foliage) cast a shadow which, blown too large and distorted, looked almost like a winged hominid.

            The door banged open and Molly came in again, holding the phone out apologetically.  As she handed it to him, Sherlock saw her eyes flick to the shadow in the corner, once, twice, three times.  Strange.  Usually Molly’s attention was undividedly occupied by Sherlock.

            Once Molly had left, Sherlock got back to work, but his heart wasn’t in the analysis somehow; life was unbearably grey and dull, and he wished for a fleeting moment for the comfort of the cocaine.  Not worth the trouble, really.  Well, if he was lucky, these serial suicides would turn into something the Yard would admit they needed his help for.  They always needed it, of course, but it often took something extraordinary to force them to admit it.

            Sherlock sighed and finished the dregs of the coffee, cold already, then threw on his scarf and coat and headed for the door.  As he passed the plant in the corner, he had a strange sensation of warmth, but he shook it off.  Air-conditioning needing fixed again.

~

            John stretched as he followed Sherlock out of the building.  He still felt that the most incredibly unfair part about being dead was still feeling the pain of his injuries, burning cold through his shoulder, leg, and chest.  Mycroft had attempted an explanation, which had at first been entirely over John’s head, but eventually he had managed to get a relatively straight answer out of the man.  The wounds which had killed him weren’t supposed to have happened—were Unfated (dear God, John had never believed in fate, and he seriously resented being forced to do so now, but he couldn’t really argue, particularly not after the thrill of immediate recognition he’d felt on seeing Sherlock)—so something about him was rejecting them, and that hurt.  Mycroft told him the bullets were probably still lodged inside his—well, John wasn’t sure that “body” was a good term anymore, but it was what the elder Holmes had used.

            He liked the wings, though.  He liked flying, even though it was difficult at first, and he still wasn’t completely used to it.  He was pretty sure he should be reacting to being dead with more than mild irritation, but he couldn’t quite seem to manage it, though the nagging sense of wrongness somewhat made up for that. 

            He was wrapped up enough in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the young woman standing in the hall until he had nearly walked right into her.  He couldn’t walk through people, exactly; they didn’t usually notice when he bumped into them, but touching someone often gave him an unpleasant fizzing sensation.

            “Um,” she said, and he recognized her as the girl who had addressed him earlier.  She fiddled nervously with a strand of long, honey-brown hair, fairly obviously looking directly at him.

            “You can see me?”

            “A bit,” she said softly.  “If I’d looked right at you when I came in, I would’ve known you were—well.  Um, sorry.”

            “Sorry?” he echoed in confusion.

            She gave him a small smile.  “Sorry to bother you when you’re working.”

            He paused.  “So you…”

            “I know quite a lot about it.  I fell into a lake when I was seven, when there was nobody around and nearly drowned, but somebody pulled me out.  Ever since…well.  I’m Molly, by the way, Molly Hooper.  It’s funny that I can talk to you, actually.  I can see angels, but I’ve never been able to talk to one before.”

            “I’m John Watson.”  He smiled at her.  She seemed nice, and it was definitely a relief to be able to talk to someone who wasn’t Mycroft.  There must be other angels out there, but so far he had yet to meet them.

            “I just wanted to say hi,” she said.  “Let you know I could see you.  If you need help with anything, I can try my best.  I like to help.  Oh, God, I sound so stupid, I’m sorry.”

            “It’s OK.  Thanks.  I should get going, though, I’m not supposed to let His Nibs out of my sight.”

            “Right, of course, yeah.  You go on then.”  As he hurried after Sherlock, she gave him a smile and a little wave.  I like to help.  What a sweet girl.  Sherlock really was awful to her.  John rolled his eyes—would he really have wanted to spend more time with Sherlock Holmes if he’d met him when he was alive?  So far it seemed improbable at best.  Two things had stopped him from turning around, telling Mycroft his brother was a right arse, and he could find himself another damn guardian angel.  The first was the peculiar sensation of recognition he’d had immediately upon seeing Sherlock; the second was the glimpse he’d caught of the other’s piercing grey eyes—and this time, the recognition wasn’t something mystical.  It was a memory—of sand and blood and death and a pair of grey eyes that belonged to someone who had held him as he died.


	4. Interlude I

The castle was fire-gutted and blackened, and Abigail swore loudly as she made her way up the ravaged courtyard.  Unbelievable.  She should never have left Bright-hair, but, like an idiot, she had listened when the princess told her she would be fine, that she should supervise the battle against Jaye’s guards down in the valley.  She really ought to know better by now.  True, she hadn’t actually had much chance to spend a great deal of time in Bright-hair’s company, but they had spent enough time corresponding by secret epistle that she _knew_ the princess, and one thing that had always been painfully obvious was that Bright-hair had an absolute genius for causing situations to deteriorate rapidly.

            The castle had been completely intact the last time she had seen it, which had been less than a day ago.  Feeling for the weight of her sword at her side, Abigail hurried in long strides through ash-covered foliage, searching for any sign of life.

            She didn’t see anyone until she had made her way up to the set of ornate doors, through which was the grand hall, where a young woman with a bandage around her head was standing with a bow and arrow, which she raised as Abigail approached.

            “Who goes there?” she snapped.

            Abigail had one hand on her sword.  “I am Princess Abigail,” she responded calmly.  “And if you are keeping me from Bright-hair, you ought to know that I am going to get to her.”

            “Oh, you’re Abigail,” said the young woman, lowering the bow.  “Go on, then, Bright-hair’s sulking again.  Maybe you can do something with her.  I’m Alexia, by the way.”

            Alexia.  Bright-hair had mentioned her repeatedly in the letters the two of them had exchanged for years, mostly to complain, but her complaints were things along the lines of, _Today Alexia forced me to devour far more food than one person should be able to hold_ (which probably meant that she managed to get Bright-hair to eat a crust of bread).  Abigail was a little jealous of Alexia, but she was also grateful to her.

            “Nice to meet you,” she said, not showing the relief she felt at hearing that Bright-hair was uninjured.  She sheathed her sword and held out her hand, but Alexia jerked her thumb.

            “Seriously,” she said.  “Get on in there before she brings the rest of the castle down.  I think she thinks you’re dead.”

            The great hall was swathed in darkness, and something was moaning eerily, sending a frisson of dread down Abigail’s spine.  She took a few steps and almost tripped over her own feet.  “Oh, for god’s _sake_!” she snapped.  “Bright-hair, stop being an idiot!”

            “Abigail?”  Bright-hair’s voice was as thin as a reed flute.  She had obviously been crying, and just as obviously, didn’t want anyone to know about it.  There was a pause. 

            “Could I have a little light?” Abigail asked.  “I’d rather not fall flat on my face, if it’s all the same to you.”

            “Oh.  Yes.  Certainly.”

            She heard Bright-hair shift, and then the darkness which had swallowed the room lifted as the half-shredded dark curtains lifted from the long, narrow windows.  Bright-hair herself was crouched in front of the throne, which had been tipped on its side.  Her thin, expressive face was streaked and dirtied with ash.  In front of her, next to the throne, lay the shattered pieces of a large mirror.

            “Gods, what happened?” Abigail asked.

            “Jaye got away,” Bright-hair said sullenly. 

            Abigail felt her eyebrows shoot up into her hair.  “Well, that’s certainly descriptive,” she said, crossing the room to Bright-hair.  “Did you notice the castle nearly burning to the ground around you?  I assume that’s what happened, judging from the signs of fire.”

            “Oh, that.  Yes.”  Bright-hair shrugged.

            “And…”

            “Jaye and I had a slight altercation, and she escaped.”

            “Did this slight altercation involve flames and nearly burning the castle to the ground?”

            Bright-hair waved a careless hand.  “A bit.”

            Abigail found herself taking a very long breath in through her nose, counting to ten, and releasing it.  “Fantastic,” she said.  “Details, please.”


	5. Contact

             _Bloody git!_   John couldn’t believe him.  Seriously, he wasn’t sure he’d ever met someone who was more of an idiot than Sherlock The Idiot Holmes.  He’d tried physically restraining Sherlock, but of course that hadn’t worked.  He’d tried jumping up and down in front of him and waving his arms.  He’d tried yelling _Don’t get in a cab with a serial killer, you bloody idiot!_   But of course, nothing had worked.

            It had taken him trailing futilely after them until they reached some awful community college or other for him to come to the obvious conclusion.  He didn’t have a mobile of his own, anymore, of course, but he’d found he could interact with objects if he really needed to, so he fished the bloody pink phone out from the car seat, called Molly, and told her to send the police.  Then he’d taken off after Sherlock.

            The police would have been too late, of course, though he gave Molly credit for doing her best in a very tricky situation.  He’d lost track of Sherlock during the time it took him to make the call, though, and he had to run desperately through a number of nightmarish twists and turns, down one corridor, down the next, forgetting himself and yelling “Sherlock!” at the top of his lungs, only to remember that no one could hear him.

            And then, to top it all off, he’d come bolting into an empty room, only to see Sherlock yards away, too much empty space between them, eying a pill which he held up to the light, and was clearly about to swallow.  No time to do anything, no time even to get there, and John cursed himself, because he a fine guardian angel he was!  There was only one thing that would save Sherlock now, assuming that he was going to continue being a complete arse and actually take the fucking pill.

            Mycroft must have gotten into John’s actual wardrobe from when he was alive (John suspected that ‘minor position in the celestial hierarchy’ meant more than it sounded like), because he’d given him a suitcase of clothes that either were John’s, or were a set of perfect facsimiles, but he hadn’t given him a weapon.  Guardian angels weren’t supposed to get physically involved, Mycroft had warned him, but John wasn’t going to stand by and watch Sherlock kill himself, and the gun was cold and heavy in a hand that had been empty moments before.

            He froze as the glass shattered, as Sherlock whirled toward the window, and for an instant, as the keen eyes swept across him, he was certain he had been seen, but of course, that was impossible, and Sherlock turned away from the window and back toward the man who had fallen. 

            He got in quite a lot of trouble for that.  Mycroft gave him a talking-to that lasted for about an hour, though he eventually admitted that, short of letting Sherlock die, there hadn’t been much else he could do.  By the time the interview was finished, John was tired and very much looking forward to falling asleep on the couch he had glimpsed in Baker Street during the ridiculously long day.

            He came in through the window of Sherlock’s bedroom, after checking that the room was empty and wandered through the flat.  If Sherlock noticed some doors opening and shutting without any apparent cause, well, that was just too bad.  He wasn’t likely to come to the correct conclusion anyway.

            Yawning, he made his way into the sitting room and stopped.  Sherlock was slumped across the couch, almost boneless, one long arm dragging on the ground, looking utterly dejected.  John’s first reaction was a surge of pure irritation.  What was wrong with the man?  Hadn’t he just caught a serial killer?  He sighed.  “What’s wrong?” he said, before he could stop himself.

            And Sherlock answered.  “Bored already, case over, no sign of the mysterious Moriarty, my fan, nothing to do, dull as ditchwater.  It’s time’s like this I miss the cocaine.”  Then he seemed to stiffen and look up.  John watched him curiously, but Sherlock’s eyes stared right through him.  “And now I’m going mad,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Wonderful.”

            “You’re not, actually,” John said, even though he was pretty sure Sherlock wouldn’t hear him this time.  “Although you may be mad already, you utter twat.”

            Sherlock uttered another long sigh.  “Booooored,” he pronounced, flinging himself down onto the couch again.

            “Hm,” said John.  Sherlock hadn’t paused the entire day to eat or drink anything.  No wonder he was feeling awful; his blood sugar levels were probably horribly low.  “After all, we’re both British,” he said aloud, with an amused grin, and headed for the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

~

            Sherlock was certainly going mad, but it was a pleasant kind of madness.  Much as he prided himself on being above mere matters of “transport”, the smell of tea wafting from inside the little kitchen had been remarkably welcome, despite the fact that there was absolutely no logical explanation for who had made it, which was how he knew he had to be going mad.  He briefly considered the possibility that Mrs. Hudson had snuck in and made him a cuppa, but it was entirely impossible that he wouldn’t have noticed her; besides, it was her night out.

            The fact that he ought to have noticed someone else entering was what told him he was almost certainly going mad.  There was no logical explanation, unless the tea had boiled itself, or he could not trust the evidence of his own senses, which was something that should have bothered him a great deal, but somehow, in this particular instance, didn’t.  Maybe he’d been drugged.  Maybe it was a dream.  What he could trust was that his sense of taste was telling him it was an excellent cup of tea, and when the biscuits appeared (having apparently been rooted out from underneath several meters of experimental slime molding), he didn’t bother to wonder how they’d gotten there, he just ate some.

            And after that, being surprisingly tired for once, he allowed himself to stagger into his living room and collapse back down onto the couch.  As he drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard a voice say, “That’s where I was going to sleep, you prat.”

~

            Life at Baker Street slipped easily into a routine.  John found it a little strange that Sherlock, normally so desperate for answers, didn’t seem to question the tea and biscuits, the suspiciously obviously laid out pillows on the couch, even the fact that occasionally he woke up to find his computer still running or his mobile moved from one place to another.  But in a way he could understand it, too.  It was so easy to adjust to having another pair of hands to help out.  And pervading it all was the easy sense of comfort and rightness, as if he was supposed to be here.  He could see by now how he and Sherlock probably would have clicked if he hadn’t died, if he’d been invalided home and had met Sherlock—maybe looking for a flatmate.

            God, Sherlock would have made a terrible flatmate.  He still did, playing the violin at all hours of the night (and John wished he could understand the obscenities John was shouting at him when he was particularly tired—why did angels need to sleep anyway?), not to mention the experiments he performed in the kitchen and his tendency to leave body-parts strewn around the flat.  At least John did not need to eat, because he suspected the contents of the fridge would have put him off rather a lot.  The day he found intestines in the butter dish stood out as particularly memorable.

            John had to admit that Sherlock needed someone.  He didn’t eat or sleep unless prompted or close to collapse; he smoked cigarettes steadily, sometimes for hours at a time.  And that was only the personal habits.  John had to save him from an assassin with a sword (what was an assassin with a sword doing in the flat anyway?) by dint of some judicious movements of the coffee table.  Later the same day, Sherlock was called in on a case and almost throttled to death (John couldn’t pull the attacker off, but he frightened him by knocking over a lamp), then shot at (John made sure to douse the lights so that the shooter couldn’t see him) and finally kidnapped and threatened by some kind of Chinese mafia (who knew there were Chinese mafia in existence?  John was fairly certain only Sherlock could get himself kidnapped by them).  This time, he saved the day when he saw that Sherlock was clumsily beginning to struggle with the ropes that bound him; he stilled the other man’s hands so the ranting General Shan (General?  Really?  Did these people have any concept of military etiquette?) didn’t notice, and then he loosened them so Sherlock could slip out.

            It didn’t occur to him until the Chinese gang were all dispatched or arrested and Sherlock and he were in a cab on the way back to Baker Street that he shouldn’t have been able to touch the other man’s hands at all, not without the strange, unpleasant fizzing and no real reaction.  But as soon as he had touched Sherlock, his hands had gone still and compliant, and they’d felt just like normal human hands.  He was still puzzling over this when they made their weary way back up to 221B.

            Sherlock stopped just inside the doorway, and John bumped into him, and again, it felt perfectly normal, felt…he stilled instantly, stepped back, but Sherlock turned toward him with a triumphant smile on his face.  “You’re well under 1.8 meters tall, between 1.6 and 1.7 judging from the fact you use a footstool to reach the top shelf of the cupboard.  You sleep, but don’t eat.  You were an army doctor and received injuries in the shoulder, the leg, and possibly the chest.  Your name is John Watson, and you were killed in action three months ago in Afghanistan.”

            John stared.  “How can you possibly know that?” he asked, despite knowing Sherlock couldn’t hear him.

            But Sherlock responded, “The top shelf of the cupboard is out of your reach, as I said, but you don’t use a footstool to reach the bookshelf in the living room—I’ve seen the books moved and replaced but no evidence that the footstool has traveled between anywhere but its spot in the living room and the kitchen.  So, 1.6 to 1.7 meters.  No food goes missing other than that I consume myself, although it is moved around—thank you for the tea, by the way—but there are certain blocks in the day when I observe no activity, but as the door hasn’t opened, you haven’t gone out.  Therefore, sleep.  Doctor from your not-very-well-hidden interest in perusing my medical journals, army from the patterns of your sleep routine and the paths you take around the flat.  Injury in the leg evident from the pattern of creaking your feet make on the stairs—lighter than a normal human, but still audible, interesting that—injury in the shoulder suggested by the fact that you use your left hand to move items below shoulder level, so left-handed, but right hand to move items above you, so a stiffness or pain when raising the shoulder.  I admit that the chest and your name were in the nature of a hypothesis until you confirmed them just now, but I’m pleased to see my assumption was correct.  I have to admit that the justification is shakier than my other deductions.  Chest injury suggested by the length of time it takes you to enter the window and also by the fact that three months ago, I had a strange lucid dream about an army doctor who was shot in the shoulder, chest, and leg.  As you appeared shortly thereafter, it seemed a not-unreasonable conclusion given that so much about you was already blatantly illogical.  From the glimpse of the location I had when I was dreaming, I was able to deduce where you must have died, and the rest was simple research on soldiers killed in action in the vicinity, as I knew I’d recognize you.”

            He hadn’t even paused for breath.  John wasn’t sure how that was possible.  Even though he’d seen Sherlock work before, he was still utterly confounded and impressed.  “That…was amazing.”

            A fleeting touch of surprise crossed Sherlock’s eager face.  “That’s not what people usually say.”

            “What do people usually say?”

            “ ‘Piss off.’”

            John had to smile at that.  “Budge up,” he said.  “I’m going to make you some tea, since you seem to like it so much.”

            This time there was no response to his words, though Sherlock seemed to feel the hand that John laid on his shoulder.  After a few long moments, Sherlock spoke again, “Damn.  I don’t believe I can hear you anymore.  Squeeze my hand if you tried to say something.”  He held it out in John’s general direction; John took it and squeezed it as directed.  Sherlock shook his head.  “There’s no real pattern, not yet, at any rate, and it’s hard to coordinate.”  He paused, not letting go of John’s hand, and John stood patiently, waiting for him.  “Do you know Morse? Squeeze once for yes,” he added impatiently, as John simply stared at him.

            “Yes,” he squeezed, and that was when the brilliant simplicity of Sherlock’s scheme became clear.  It was a bit like Helen Keller, really.

            “Fantastic!  We should be able to communicate quite simply, then.  It’s not perfect, but it’ll do until I can come up with something better.”

            They spent the rest of the evening, once John had convinced Sherlock to eat something (he would have expected it to be easier now that they could communicate, but it really wasn’t—God, the man was stubborn!) talking to each other.

            After a few abortive tries at finding another method of communication (he still couldn’t hear John over the phone, and all texts and emails came out as unintelligible error garbage), they confined themselves to sitting close together on the couch, with Sherlock’s hand in John’s.  John was overjoyed to no longer be an ignored observer; even if it took a long time for him to say what he was thinking, and it was a bit frustrating, there was still a give-and-take, and with Sherlock’s brilliance, he could usually make out what John intended from just a word or two.  He managed to get out the fact that John thought he was an angel, not a ghost, “which I admit was not my first thought.”  When he discovered that Molly could see John, he was suitably intrigued.  “We’ll have to talk to her on Monday and try to figure this out a little better.  It’s fascinating, even if it’s totally unscientific.  I wonder why you can touch me?”  He steepled his fingers together.  “There’s so much here that’s unknown, and a great deal of it that I’m not sure makes sense, even allowing the reality of angels and the supernatural.”  He frowned.  “What did you do with my cigarettes?”

            John smirked.  Hid them, he responded.

            Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Yes, I’m aware of that.  I want to know where they are.”

            No.

            “I don’t overindulge, you know that.”

            John wished Sherlock could see the pointed, disbelieving frown he was giving him.  Not that gullible.

            ‘Gullible’ took a little concentration, but the result was a sharp sigh and a pair of rolled eyes from Sherlock.  Then he turned rapidly.  John looked up and saw Mycroft clambering in the window, his usually-impeccable suit drenched with rainwater.

            “And just what do you think you two are doing?” he inquired.  He shook out his long wings, spattering raindrops across the flat, but John noticed that they never appeared to land.

            “What is it?” Sherlock said urgently.

            John thought about not answering, but his loyalty was by now firmly entrenched with the younger Holmes rather than the elder.  Mycroft, he responded, as he said out loud, “We’re talking, what does it look like?”

            As the fourth letter crossed Sherlock’s palm, John felt him freeze, suggesting he already knew how the word was going to end, but John finished it anyway.

            Mycroft frowned.  “This is ill-advised,” he said.

            “Mycroft?” Sherlock said sharply.

            “That was even more so,” Mycroft continued smoothly, though John thought he detected a slight tightening of the jaw.

            “Why?” he asked belligerently.  “I’m sorry if I’m not following your bloody protocols, but I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time of stopping Sherlock from accidentally killing himself if I were alive.  At least this way he might listen to me for a change instead of just getting into a taxi-cab with a serial killer!”

            “What are you saying to him?  What is he doing here?  I do not need looking after.”

            John put a hand to his forehead.  It was exceedingly difficult to carry on two different conversations at once, particularly since his Morse really wasn’t that fast.  He quickly messaged, Talk about you, quiet in the hopes that it would shut Sherlock up for a little while.

            “Hm,” Mycroft said.  “I’m concerned because of the amount of attention you are drawing to yourselves.  There might as well be a beacon emanating from this flat.”

            “Then why didn’t you say anything about it before?” John demanded irritably.

            “I will not be quiet,” Sherlock said at precisely the same time, and John groaned.

            Shut it.  Can’t hear Mycroft.  Sherlock gave a huff, but subsided.

            “Primarily because it should have been impossible.  My apologies; I’m afraid I ought to have anticipated something of this nature.”

            “What exactly is so dangerous about drawing attention to ourselves anyway?  I mean what kind of attention are we drawing that you’re worried enough to come out here and bother about it?  You don’t strike me as the kind to get off your arse for just anything.”

            Sherlock, obviously unable to keep silent any longer, spoke up again.  “Mycroft is being impossible, impractical and generally irritating as usual, isn’t he?”

            Yes.

            “Tell him I missed him as well,” Mycroft drawled.

            M missed you too.

            Sherlock went very still again.  “Good, I thought that would make him quiet for a little longer.  John, while it is remarkably fascinating to discover that you can interact with my brother, I am afraid it does mean there is danger brewing in the immediate future.”

            “Why?” John asked.  “And don’t fob me off with some half-arsed explanation.  I need to know what we’re up against.”

            Danger, he communicated to Sherlock, who responded, surprisingly, with a squeeze of his own, and unless he meant a single e or t, he seemed to be genuinely offering a gesture of support to John.  It was strange how easily they had slipped into being comfortable with each other—or perhaps it wasn’t; they’d both been living together, one way or another, for three months.  And anyone who could live with Sherlock for three months, John thought reasonably, had to be either a saint or in some deep corner of his mind actually be mad enough to like the tosser.

            Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and spoke again.  “As even you must realize if you put a modicum of thought into it, John, any world which allows angels must also allow quite the opposite.”

            Tell you in a minute, John quickly squeezed, and Sherlock gave a low explosive noise, rose to his feet, and deliberately stalked straight toward Mycroft, who slid out of the way with a pained expression.  Sherlock mulishly took down his violin, stalked into the kitchen, and slammed the door. 

            “Thank you, John.  As the damage has already been done, you can explain what I am about to tell you to Sherlock as soon as I’ve departed.  Normally, there is a pattern of noninterference on both sides, but as you’ve quite clearly broken that, you will soon be seeing some less-than-savory visitors.  Mostly creatures that should be easily dealt with by means of a pistol and some determination, but if you are unlucky…” he trailed off.  “Be on your guard.  Be ready to run.  I will do my best to aid you in every respect that I can, but I am not—physically talented.  The best I can offer you is an early warning.  Here.”  He held out a thin, leatherbound notebook, which felt cold when it landed in John’s hand.  “Not as advanced as a mobile phone, I’m afraid, and it won’t allow two-way communications, but I’ll be able to let you know if something is coming your way and also potentially give you enough information that Sherlock won’t complain too much.”

            He paused and frowned, even as John tried to collect his scattered and confused thoughts.  “I suspect that whoever was behind your death in the first place did not expect you to be able to associate with Sherlock from beyond the grave, but I do not think they will be averse to the opportunity to send dark creatures to dog your paths.  To be honest, though, I find that things are almost as mysterious to myself as they are to you, which is a frustrating position for me to be in.”

            He sighed.  “I had better go.  Take care of Sherlock for me.”

            “Always,” John answered, and was surprised by how quickly the word had spilled out.

            Mycroft gave him a small smile as he stepped to the window-sill and launched himself out.

            John squared his shoulders and reminded himself that even if it meant more danger, it was worth it, to be able to communicate with Sherlock.

 


	6. Interlude II

            Reading between the lines, from what little Bright-hair would say, and more coherently, from what Alexia had seen, Abigail managed to put together a picture of what had nearly caused a conflagration that had swallowed the entire castle.  While Abigail was leading the battle against Jaye’s soldiers, Bright-hair had (instead of waiting for her, as Abigail had explicitly instructed her to do) taken the dwarves and gone after Jaye, who had made the mistake of implying that Abigail’s forces were losing and that Abigail herself would shortly be deceased.

            Bright-hair was very reticent about the next part, and Alexia hadn’t actually seen it, but it seemed that Bright-hair’s magical gift (which had never been encouraged by her father and tended to manifest erratically as a consequence) had erupted into fire.  Alexia had prudently withdrawn the castle guards as Jaye and Bright-hair battled, but eventually Jaye had fled through the mirror, which had shattered behind her.

            “And I’ve no idea yet where she went,” Bright-hair said disgustedly.

            “You’ll figure it out.”  Abigail reached a tentative finger forward and snared one of Bright-hair’s slightly-singed curls.  The last forty-eight hours had been such a whirlwind; it was difficult to realize that Bright-hair, who, for these past ten years, had been nothing but the faceless, wordless author behind the scrawled letters that Abigail received sporadically, was honestly here.  Right now, Abigail was firmly not thinking about the fact that both their last parting had ended with a kiss and their newest meeting had started with one.

            As Abigail’s finger lost contact with the end of Bright-hair’s curl, Bright-hair’s intense grey eyes turned to her, dark as a storm.  “You always _believe_ in me,” Bright-hair said.  “You don’t even know me.”

            “Of course I know you,” Abigail responded instantly, found that somehow the back of her fingers were caressing Bright-hair’s cheek.  “I know you very well indeed.”

            “Letters!” Bright-hair scoffed, but Abigail shook her head and smiled a little as she answered.

            “Thoughts.” 


	7. Reds and Rats

They spent the rest of the night talking.  John got sleepy, but Sherlock didn’t seem to; if anything, as the night wore on, he became more and more excited.  John had been a little worried that the revelation of supernatural creatures from beyond the grave would upset Sherlock’s worldview, but it didn’t seem to have done.  Sherlock was just as fascinated by the problems as John had ever seen him get about an experiment (and at least this one wasn’t likely to lead to intestines in the butter dish).  He also thought of a number of questions that John hadn’t (when would he have had time to consider philosophical questions?) and was repeatedly disappointed when John’s general response was either, Don’t know, or Haven’t thought about it.

            The only subject that never came up was the topic of his brother.  Sherlock carefully avoided mentioning Mycroft, and John, not wanting to intrude on private grief, didn’t bring it up.  Eventually, as the sun was cresting the horizon, he told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that he needed to sleep.

            “I still can’t understand why an angel would need to sleep,” Sherlock said irritably, and John wished there was an easy way to express to escape from prats asking silly questions without taking another ten minutes over Morse.  He made up his mind to ask Molly if there was any way she could think of for him to communicate more easily with Sherlock, shooed the man away from the couch and curled up on it.

            He woke up several hours later from a dream of hot sand and roaring flames, to find Sherlock shaking him.

            “Are you all right?  No, don’t bother answering, of course you’re not all right,” Sherlock said, sliding onto the couch beside him.  “A nightmare, I take it?”

            John felt rapidly for his hand and squeezed, once.

            “I felt the movement of the couch.  You’re breathing too quickly; your chest must be paining you.  And you’re stiff.  You haven’t slept enough.”  All statements, no questions.  John didn’t squeeze, didn’t do anything.  His chest was heaving and, as Sherlock said, quite painful.  He couldn’t seem to ease the trembling in his limbs.

            “It seems entirely unfair that you should be having nightmares about dying when you’ve already died,” Sherlock said in a meditative voice, and John chuffed a laugh and leaned against his shoulder.  It was marvelous to be able to touch this man he’d had to admire from a distance for three months, whom somehow he knew he’d have risked his life to protect the first day he had known him.  Maybe there had been something in what Mycroft had said about fate.  Certainly he felt as if he’d known Sherlock for longer than a quarter of a year.

            “You do seem to be feeling slightly better now,” Sherlock mused.  “The sense of touch is very important to living humans, so I suppose there’s some precedent for it mattering to a deceased one as well.  All right, then.  John, go ahead and sleep again.  I’ll stay here.  I need to think anyway.”

            A rippling thrill ran through John’s entire body, something that went far beyond simple gratitude at the offer.  He found himself curling instinctively against Sherlock’s side, and he had to rein himself back.  Thanks, he responded.

            “Go ahead, lie down.  Touch stimulates the production of oxytocin, which is well-known for its beneficial effects, including acceleration of wound healing.  I have no idea if it will work on an angel, but we might as well try.”  Sherlock’s voice was devoid of emotion, but there was something very gentle about the way his hand cupped the back of John’s head and maneuvered it toward his lap.

            John nearly jumped out of his skin when one of those slim, long-fingered hands landed on his head and began to comb gently through his hair.  “Petting is also clinically approved as a method of relaxation, and I tend to fidget when I’m thinking,” Sherlock said, and John had to admit it felt nice.  Prat, he told Sherlock sleepily, but the only response was a soft hum in that low, baritone voice.  He drifted back to sleep far faster than he would have done by himself.

            When he woke up again, it was to Sherlock’s voice talking stridently over his mobile.  “And you’re sure the body was moved?  Fantastic.  I’ll be right there.”

            As he moved the phone down from his ear, his eyes met John’s.  “We’ve got a case!  Murder, unidentified victim, Scotland Yard stumped as usual.  Sounds interesting, from what Lestrade said.”

            Then, with the barest hint of hesitation, “You’ll be coming?”

            Yes.  John didn’t bother to add, And when’s the last time I let you out of my sight anyway?  There was no question that Sherlock knew.

~

            The woman lying in the center of the room with her arms and legs spreadeagled almost obscenely was quite young and would have been very beautiful if she had been alive, John thought.  The nodding acquaintance his status as a doctor had afforded him with death let him look past the rigidity of the body and the ugly blue tinge of her lips and see that before she’d been killed, she might have even been his type.  A short woman with honey-colored hair and a heart-shaped face, dressed in a short red skirt, with a basket tucked under one arm and a silly little cape-and-hood number fitted over the shoulders.  Definitely his type, John thought sadly.  It was a bit silly, wasn’t it, to be pitying someone who was dead when you were also dead?             

            And yet the stink of death and decay that hung heavy over the whole room was affecting him about as much as it would have done before…

            He tried to distance himself from the strange, sinking feeling by studying the scene clinically.  The cause of death was obvious:  her chest was caved in just beneath the left breast, and powder burns marked the skin and ragged cloth around the entry wound.  She’d been shot point-blank with something along the lines of a shot-gun.  Messy.  Nasty.  Something else—her stomach showed a swelling and rigidity he wouldn’t have expected, and he wasn’t sure he could put his finger on the cause.

            “We know she was moved here after she was killed,” Lestrade said.  “The blood on the floor around her isn’t hers.”

            Sherlock looked up from his inspection of the body.  “I suspected that,” he said.  “Apparently you haven’t been completely incompetent this time.  Congratulations.”

            “So what do you think?  Cultist?”

            “Possible.  I’m afraid we have very little to go on if this is indeed a serial killing.”

            “Give me what you’ve got,” Lestrade told him.  “So far we don’t even know who the victim is.”

            “I think you’ll find she’s employed at a hospital.  Not many hobbies, hard-working, somewhat introverted, enjoys high art.  Lonely, probably lured into some sort of trap by the promise of romance, which does tell us something about the murderer.  He’s a professional man of some kind, or was able to pass himself off as such, relatively young, and at least reasonably attractive.  He also apparently has some sort of obsession with fairy-tales of the darker kind.”

            “Yes, the Red Riding Hood costume kind of gives it away.”

            “Not sexual, however; she was dressed like this after her death and there is no indication the body was abused post-mortem.  What can you tell me about the blood?”

            He indicated the rusty pentagram which had been slathered haphazardly around the body.           

            “Chicken blood,” Lestrade said succinctly.

            “Indicating some kind of ritual, I would guess,” Sherlock said meditatively.

            “Again, we got that.  You think he’s some kind of Satanist?”

            “Symbol’s the wrong way round.  Too meticulous to be a mistake.  He wants you to think it’s a Satanic killing, or at least wants to ensure that the only person who notices it isn’t is reasonably intelligent.”

            “Thank you for that,” Lestrade said icily.  “Would you like to tell me how you came to all your conclusions, Oh Great Detective?”

            “Mmm,” Sherlock said distractedly, but when John touched his arm gently he came awake with a start.  “Oh, very well.  I can’t believe it’s not obvious, but if you insist.”  He took a deep breath and then began to rattle off conclusions so rapidly John was impressed despite being used to it.  “Clear evidence of dust from the inside of disposable gloves remaining on her fingers, so she works in a sterile environment.  Could be a lab, but the lingering smell of disinfectant on her hands suggests otherwise.  Pronounced circles under her eyes—she’s up till all hours, and there’s a callus on the third finger of her right hand—she’s been doing enough writing for it to harden, and the faint pattern of swelling on her skin, here, probably indicates a brace or splint.  Bone isn’t broken, though, and she shows no evidence of physical injury, so probably carpal tunnel syndrome from too much typing.  Quick check with an ultraviolet light—” he demonstrated “—shows she’s had her hand stamped by one of the free art museums, so high art lover.  That she was lonely is suggested by her makeup—it’s expensive quality but doesn’t match very well, so she hasn’t had much cause to wear it lately and had to dig through her closet to find something suitable.  It’s also painstakingly done, so she was very likely on an early date with someone when she was killed.  Possible that the date was unrelated to the murder, but highly unlikely, as it’s an easy way to get someone alone.  But a lonely, hard-working woman at a surgery, with expensive makeup and not short of beauty or sex appeal—loneliness is at least partly self-enforced.  She would more than likely be attracted to a professional man and is attractive enough herself that the man whom she was dating can’t have been too hideous.”  He paused and quirked an eyebrow at Lestrade.  “Good enough?”

            Brilliant, John poked into his shoulder from behind, and Sherlock preened.

            “Bloody hell,” Lestrade said.  “Every time you do that I almost forget how much of a prick you are.”

            “I’ll start work on finding out who she was,” Sherlock said.  “It shouldn’t be too hard.  There can’t be many missing doctors.”

            “She might be a nurse.”

            “With money for those stockings and that makeup?” Sherlock responded witheringly.  “Honestly, Lestrade.  Use your mind, if you have one.  I think we’ll also need an autopsy, as there’s something wrong with her stomach—I know you’ve at least noticed that as well—and I’ll want a sample of the blood and the dirt for analysis.”

            “You said she was dressed after she died,” Lestrade pointed out.  “But the clothing is torn around the bullet wound and covered in her blood.”

            “Yes, quite clever and well done, I’ll admit, but the tearing pattern is wrong for a bullet entry wound.  Now if you’re sufficiently impressed, we could relocate to the morgue?  The body was obviously arranged here, and whoever it was has left very little evidence behind other than the blood and the corpse.”

            Lestrade waved a limp hand in Sherlock’s direction.  “Go on, I’ll give you a call when it’s all set up, all right?”

            “Excellent.”

            “And Sherlock—”

            Sherlock paused at the exit of the room, so suddenly that John ran into him again.  “Yes?”

            “Do we have a serial killer on our hands?”

            “Impossible to say at this point.”

            “Your best guess?”

            Sherlock hesitated.  “You know I don’t—“

            “Your best estimate.”

            “It’s unlikely that someone would go to this trouble with an ordinary murder, but it’s possible.”

            “Great.  I’ll keep you posted.”

~

            They headed straight to Bart’s, despite the fact that the body wouldn’t be delivered to the morgue for some time yet.  John didn’t bother asking why; Sherlock was in his dangerously quiet mood and probably wouldn’t notice him asking anyway.

            When they arrived, Molly was slipping off her lab coat, clearly preparing to leave for the day. 

            “Coat on, I think, Molly,” Sherlock said.

            “What—I—”

            “Coherent as usual.  In answer to the question you haven’t yet managed to ask, there will be a corpse coming in shortly, and I work better with you.  In the mean time, I’d like to ask you a few questions with regards to John.”

            “John?  Who’s J—oh.”  She stopped and stared directly at him, and John gave her a self-conscious little wave.

            “It seems you can’t stop the world’s only consulting detective from finding out he’s got a guardian angel,” he said, a little apologetically.

            Molly seemed to be trying to decide whether to be shocked or impressed.  She settled on saying, “Oh,” again.  Then, “I don’t think that’s supposed to…how?”

            Sherlock waved his hand.  “Rather trivial, really.  I haven’t the time to explain now.  What I want to know is why you can see him—can you hear him as well?”

            Molly nodded.

            “Really?  What’s he saying?”

            John winked at Molly.  “Sherlock’s a git.”

            She went bright red.  “U-um…”

            “He’s not propositioning you, is he?  I have to wonder if that would work.  Not the propositioning, obviously, but sexual intercourse with an angel.”

            “Oi!” John slapped the back of Sherlock’s head.  “Christ, Sherlock.  Just no.”

            “He’s not propositioning me!” Molly put in quickly.  Then she blinked.  “Could you feel that?”

            Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, my dearly departed older brother explained that this sort of thing ought to be impossible, but I thought it would be preferable to get multiple sources of data on the phenomenon.”

            “I’ve definitely never—I mean, um, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone be able to touch a—one of them—you—before.”  The ‘you’ was clearly directed at John, Molly’s clumsy (and slightly endearing) attempt to be polite.  He smiled at her reassuringly.

            “I want to know everything you know,” Sherlock said.  “Tell me everything you’ve observed.”  How like Sherlock.  John rolled his eyes as the other man pulled a clearly confused Molly Hooper over to the computer at the side of the room and pushed her down into a chair.  She was obviously unused to this amount of attention from the eccentric genius, and she was blushing and stammering more than ever.

            John leaned back against the wall, rearranging his wings, which still managed to get in his way a comparatively large amount of the time, settling down for what he expected to be a long wait.

            After a few minutes, he was just wondering if he could escape for a short flight, when he felt a burning sensation in his pocket.  Reaching down into his jeans, he came up with the notebook that Mycroft had given him, which was scintillating red-black around the edges.  That couldn’t be good, John thought, and opened it.  It fell open naturally to a place a few pages in from the front; the page was initially blank, but even as he watched, dark ink began to bleed through the white paper, like blood welling from pale skin, forming words and the image of a slant-eyed rodent whose large teeth and pale inhuman eyes made John shiver for an instant.

            _Rattus phasma.  Simple-minded lesser demons whose only goal is to feed on spiritual essence._   They usually eke out  a meager existence by stealing snippets of spirit from sleeping humans.  If empowered or driven to attack a living human or spirit, however, they can be remarkably dangerous.  They tend to employ swarming tactics to overwhelm their prey in a large group, and are fast but not difficult to kill, individually.  They can move through solid objects with ease, and can climb with rapidity, but they are clumsy fliers.

            John’s gun was in his hand before he realized he was looking for it, and he scanned the area, his eerie soldier’s calm coming up to crush down everything else.  “Molly,” he said.  “Tell Sherlock we have to get out of here.”

            Could his wings lift both Molly and Sherlock?  And who was in danger in this scenario—just Sherlock, or Sherlock and Molly.

            Molly’s frightened, uncomprehending face turned toward him; as she bent to speak to Sherlock, a trickle of cold, grey mist began to flow from beneath the door.  John crossed the room to both of them, just as the mist boiled inward and began to shape itself into a number of tiny, skittering forms.  He lifted his pistol, sighted along it, and fired.  The recoil shuddering through his arms was almost comforting.

            The first shot passed directly through one of the rats with a strange puff of white smoke, as if he’d hit a bag of flour, and the creature squealed and vanished.  “Molly,” John said tersely.  “I need you and Sherlock to hold onto me.  Now.”

            “What’s happening?” Sherlock demanded, overlapping John’s words as usual.

            “We have to hold onto John,” Molly said in a small voice.  “There’s—there’s something coming in the door, I can’t really see what it is, but I think John just shot something.”

            John was only mildly surprised to find that Molly could see the rats at all, but he was thankful.  “Stay away from them,” he ordered her.  “Don’t touch them.”

            “We shouldn’t touch them,” Molly parroted obediently.  “The things coming in the door.”

            “How remarkably simple,” Sherlock said.  “Since we can’t actually observe them at all.”

            “Sherlock, stop snarking and hold onto me!” John shouted, and Molly flinched.  He shot again and again, but the rats were regrouping, slanted eyes glowing a sickly yellow which was magnified by the fog that enveloped all of them.  There were so many.  Sherlock, still complaining, allowed Molly to tug him forward, and John moved his arms around him and kept shooting, pausing to reload.  Molly reached forward—and her arm went straight through John with the same peculiarly disconcerting tingle that always accompanied the touch of a human being who wasn’t Sherlock.

            John cursed.  The rats were boiling around them now, the fog cold and clinging at their legs and feet.  Molly’s eyes went wide and fearful, and even Sherlock’s steady monologue hitched and paused for a moment.

            “Hold onto Sherlock,” John instructed, aiming the gun at the floor and firing indiscriminately.  Rats squealed and screamed, but there were more of them, and John cried out in pain as they began to nip at his ankles.  Molly’s echoing cry came a moment later, but it was a small, fearful whimper, and Sherlock gasped, a long-drawn-out sound like someone subjected to a sudden rush of cold air.  John’s three wounds began to ache fiercely, a bone-deep cold that almost froze him to the spot with pain, but he managed to force himself to stand up—Sherlock and Molly were heavy, and he gasped and grunted as he began to beat his wings frantically.

            Angels shouldn’t be able to fly; it wasn’t anatomically reasonable that wings of any length could carry something as heavy as a human frame, so perhaps that was how John managed to lift off, carrying not only his own weight but the weight of two other humans along with him.  His wings protested the strain, and he knew it would all be entirely useless anyway if he couldn’t get outside to somewhere where he had more room to maneuver, more room to leave the rats behind.  They were already beginning to take to the air, and John could no longer aim his gun.

            “Where’s the nearest window?” he demanded urgently of Molly, but it was Sherlock who answered.

            “Out the door, turn left.  We’ll have to break it; it doesn’t open.”

            They barreled through the door, the rats still swirling around their feet.  John wasn’t sure how his wings managed to fit through unfurled, but they did.  Molly yelped in pain, and Sherlock’s face was drawn and paper-white, his eyes colorless, dull grey.  John swung hard left, and there it was, gleaming dull orange in the light of the dying sun.

            “Everybody hang on!” John shouted, and Molly gave a protesting, fearful little squeak.  He flew up as high as could and swerved downward into a dive.  In the glowing orange light of the sun, the rats seemed more ethereal and phantasmic than ever.  At the last possible minute, John furled his wings around Sherlock and Molly and flung up his arms, hoping very hard that it wasn’t bullet-proof glass.

            Either it wasn’t, or even bulletproof glass was no match for John Watson, guardian angel.  It shattered with a sound that seemed surprisingly quiet relative to the roaring of the wind and Molly screaming in his ears.  There was a tearing pressure on his wings, and a series of sudden, soft touches against his cheeks and arms.  They burst out of the window in a storm of white feathers, the rats boiling out directly behind them.  John gasped, spreading his wings out to catch them.  The sudden air catching in them sent two shocks of pain up toward his back, and John hissed through his teeth, suddenly a little alarmed.  The year he’d fallen out of the apple tree and broken his arm, it had hurt something like that in the first jolt of pain.  If he’d broken his wings—God, he wished he knew more about angelic anatomy.  With any other limb, he would have known instantly what had happened and what he needed to do about it.

            His wings beat against the air, and he felt a burst of relief; they wouldn’t have been able to move if they were broken.  The rats were boiling out after them, but they lost altitude quickly, whereas John was able to stay high in the air; it was clear the immediate threat was over.  John almost fell out of the air with relief, which would have been an incredibly stupid thing to do—as it was, he missed two wingbeats and they juddered and plummeted alarmingly; Molly screamed again.

            “Be quiet,” Sherlock snapped, and for once John was grateful for his flatmate’s lack of social skills.  Flying with two people was bad enough without his ears ringing.  He winged slowly and wearily away from Bart’s and across to the rooftop of another building, but he could still see the rats, and he didn’t know how far they’d have to go to escape.  His wings were aching already, and the ebbing of the first adrenaline left him feeling hollow and dragging.  It was going to be a long evening.


	8. Interlude III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is updating so sporadically. I've had a really crazy, busy, shitty fall. I'm hoping to get a little more regular again, but I can't promise anything. Anyways, Merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy!

            There was a crash, and Abigail was awake, conscious of constricting cloth binding her arms to her side.  Panicking, thrashing, she heard the sound of ripping cloth, and then she burst out of the sheets and sat up with a gasp.

            “Sorry,” Bright-hair said awkwardly.  She was standing at the door to the bedroom, her long fingers open and stained red at the tips, the large piece of mirror that she had just dropped shattered into several smaller shards at her feet.  “I seem to be clumsier than I realized.”

            “Have you slept at all?” Abigail asked gently.

            When Bright-hair continued to simply stare at her, Abigail disentangled herself from the remains of the sheets and went over to Bright-hair.  “I think you’d better sleep,” she said.

            Bright-hair shook her head.  “I can’t, I just came in to check on you.”

            “Why can’t you sleep?”  Abigail took Bright-hair’s hand and pulled her over to the now-sadly-disturbed bed.

            Bright-hair’s wide eyes were dazed and dull as she responded, bluntly, “Thinking.”

            At first Abigail thought she meant racing thoughts, a common complaint from Bright-hair, but then she realized that was exactly what Bright-hair intended her to think; then she noticed the stiff clench of Bright-hair’s right hand and the way she seemed to have scooted right to the edge of the bed.

            “Bright-hair,” she whispered, leaning close into Bright-hair’s ear.  “I promise I’ll _always_ kiss you awake, if you want me to.”

            Bright-hair’s eyes turned to her, wider and lighter than a moment before.  “How did you—“

            “Obvious.”  Abigail smiled as she parroted one of Bright-hair’s favorite expressions.  “Will you try to sleep now?”

            Bright-hair’s lips compressed and decompressed, and finally she said.  “If you let me sleep here.”

            “Of course.”

 


	9. Intertwine

            Sherlock could feel the taut weariness in every movement that John made, and, reluctant to give up that control, he remained standing with one arm around John’s waist when they landed on the opposite rooftop.  Molly stepped away from him as soon as they landed, looking smaller and even more pathetic than she normally did.

            “Have we escaped?” Sherlock asked sharply.  This inability to trust his senses was maddening.  At least John, and to a lesser extent Mycroft, advertised their presence in subtle ways, but he’d seen no trace at all of the ‘things at the door’.  His only indication that there had been anything there, other than the feeling of John’s arm tensing as he apparently fired a gun, had been the sensation of cold about his ankles, preternaturally draining, as if he’d fallen into icewater in the middle of winter.

            There was a slight pause as John spoke with Molly, another thing Sherlock found incredibly aggravating.  Why should it be Molly and not he to whom John’s voice was audible?  He was certainly closer to John than she was.  It was remarkably inconvenient—and unfair, whispered a voice in the back of his head.  He would have liked very much to know what John’s voice sounded like.  He could imagine it, of course, approximated from the small size of John’s frame and the patterns of speech he could make out from their current method of communication, but that was hardly optimal.

            “I think so,” Molly said.  “John says they can’t fly, and he can’t see them anymore.”

            _Tired.  Rather not fly anymore_ , John squeezed painstakingly into his waist.

            “Of course you needn’t fly anymore, John,” Sherlock said.  “We can simply use the door to the roof to descend and make our way back to Baker Street.”

            John was beginning to sway slightly on his feet, so Sherlock, not wanting to leave his side, jerked his head to Molly, who hurried across, then looked up with consternation on her face.  “Um,” she said.  “It’s locked.”

            Damn.  There was nothing on the roof which would make a proper lockpick, either, and Sherlock was quite aware that not even he was proficient enough to pick a lock with a hairpin, ridiculous clichés notwithstanding.

            “Molly, make yourself useful and call someone to let us out.”  It would be embarrassing, but the alternative was to stay up here all night or until John felt ready to fly again.

            Molly nodded, reached for her pocket—and went white.

            “I—,” she stammered. 

            “You dropped it during the confrontation.”

            She nodded, looking like a wayward puppy.  Naturally.  Perfect.  There was a pause, as Sherlock considered what to do next.

            “No, John,” Molly said, and he understood instantly.

            “I agree.  We’d better stay up here at least until you’re feeling less tired,” he said.  “It would be problematic if you ceased to be able to fly halfway to the ground.”  He had intended the final statement to be jocular, but judging from Molly’s horrified expression, he hadn’t entirely succeeded.  “That was a joke,” he clarified.

            _I can do it._

            “John.”  He slid his hands up the other man’s back, feeling the strained tension of the muscles; then something came away in his hand, something long, with a springy kind of give to it.  A feather.  John’s feathers were coming loose.  “John, sit down,” he commanded.  He felt the body beside him tense, as if about to refuse, but then it relaxed, and John slid into a sitting position at his feet.  “Molly, we’ll need to give him time to rest,” Sherlock instructed.

            “Can I help?” Molly asked, clearly not directing the question at him.  Sherlock felt another burst of frustration and rage when she just as clearly got a response, because she nodded.  “Does it hurt?” she asked softly.

            Does it hurt?  “Does what hurt?” Sherlock snapped.  He knelt beside John and began, carefully, to examine him, cursing again his inability to see the other man.

            “The glass,” Molly said softly.  “He shielded us from the glass.”

            Oh, Christ.  “John,” Sherlock said, running his hands as gently as possible across the other man’s invisible arms—intact—up his shoulders, and across his face, where he found a number of small, bleeding cuts.  John’s body went tense as he touched them, but he didn’t move away, although Sherlock’s clumsy examination had to have been painful.  Sherlock groped for a handkerchief, then remembered what he used most of them for and thought better of it.  “Molly,” he snapped.  “Handkerchief.”

            “Right.  I could…I could do that?” she suggested hesitantly, holding out the neat little square, which was (of course) embroidered with the initials MH.

            It was a sensible suggestion, and Sherlock considered it for all of a nanosecond before saying, “No,” so firmly that Molly flinched back.

            _Play nice_ , John’s hand on his shoulder told him.

            “I am playing nice,” Sherlock said petulantly.

            _Apologize._

            Sherlock gritted his teeth, but it was clear John would let no one dress his wounds if Sherlock didn’t make some sort of stupid overture, so he muttered, “Apologies,” in Molly’s general direction, then turned back to John.

            “Hold still,” he said, not entirely sure what he was doing.  Did angels need their wounds cleaned?  Was he likely to be helping or hurting?  “Tell me if I hurt you.”

            He heard Molly give a little gasp, but he ignored her.  Finally, she spoke up again.

            “I’ll just, um, be over here if you need me,” she said; he waved a hand in acknowledgment after feeling John’s warning pinch on his elbow.

            He dabbed a little helplessly at John’s face, but tracing across it lightly with his fingers confirmed that the blood (or other liquid that he felt but could not see) was beginning to congeal.  John shuddered slightly beneath his fingers, but Sherlock could still feel pain in the set of the other man’s shoulders.  _He shielded us from the glass._

            _Stupid,_ Sherlock berated himself.  Stupid, and too used to observing with his eyes.  What could John have used to shield them, if not his arms?  “John,” he said.  “How badly are your wings injured?”  John barely moved, but the minute flinch told him everything he needed to know.

~

            It wasn’t the concern that surprised John, nor the somewhat possessive inability to allow Molly to help; it was the gentleness of the slim fingers which Sherlock combed through his sadly-battered wings.  He wouldn’t have thought Sherlock was capable of being so gentle.

            _Nothing much you can do_ , he told Sherlock.  He could have explained better by getting Molly to translate, but somehow, he didn’t think Sherlock would appreciate the intermediary; besides, Molly had moved judiciously across to the other side of the roof, awkwardly trying to give them a little privacy, it seemed.  He would have told her it wasn’t necessary, but he appreciated the gesture.  Sherlock touching his wings was—surprisingly intimate and raw, not that the detective could have any idea of what it felt like as he ran his fingers across the aching flesh, gently combing and rearranging the feathers, cleaning out the edges of the deepest cuts.

            “Is this helping at all?”

            “Oh _god_ yes,” he whispered—almost whimpered—in answer, quietly enough so that Molly wouldn’t be able to hear him, just reaffirming it to himself.  Sherlock stilled, and John felt his stomach drop into his shoes.  Stupid.  Sometimes Sherlock heard what he said, he knew that, and yet here he was answering him out loud with an ache of something that was very much not pain in his voice.

            If you’d asked, John would have said he was definitely not gay; not that he had a problem with anyone who was, men just didn’t arouse him.  Usually.  Except, it seemed, for this inexpressibly insane genius he was supposed to be guarding, who was a twat and a prat and a terrible flatmate.

            “Hmmmm,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice dropping to a low purr that sent a sudden, unexpected spike of arousal ( _I’m dead!  This is ridiculous!_ ) into the pit of John’s stomach.  “Not precisely how I was expecting to help, but…” There was warm amusement in his voice, and John was relieved that this wasn’t awkward, was relieved Sherlock was just treating it as another symptom of having wings (which was what it _was_ , dammit.)

            John felt his eyes drifting shut as Sherlock resumed his ministrations.  The feathers had been torn out in places, but probably more painful were the spots where they had merely been disarranged, and Sherlock’s fingers were still gentle as they settled the misplaced rachises back into alignment, soothing hundreds of tiny aches and pains John hadn’t even noticed he’d felt until they were gone.

            It seemed to take a very long time, but eventually Sherlock ran his hands one last time down over his wings, patted them very softly, and sat back on his knees.  “John…” he said slowly.  “I’ve thought of something.”

            The tone of voice was something along the lines of _John, I’ve just had a brilliant notion, and I expect you to be as utterly amazed with me as I am myself._   Honestly, John thought he ought to get tired of his flatmate being such an arrogant pillock, but somehow it never seemed to happen.

            _What?_ he asked, leaning forward to slide his fingertips beneath Sherlock’s so that he could ask the question.  Sherlock immediately leaned forward as well, until his nose was almost touching John’s, and it was all John could do not to jerk either backward—or, as a small, treacherous part of his brain was insistently remarking, possibly forward.  “John, if you were to speak while your lips were touching me, I might be able to understand you quite simply,” Sherlock said.

            Wait.  What?  “Wait, what are you—“ he spluttered, and then Sherlock’s lips were resting, a little clumsily, over his, and the world seemed to shift and rearrange—

 

            --Bright-hair was whimpering, gasping, one long-fingered hand splayed across her throat, jogging Abigail suddenly out of sleep.  “Shhhh, love, shhhh,” Abigail murmured, and she drew a deep breath and remembered that she had promised, and she surged forward.  The kiss landed clumsily, but it brought Bright-hair’s eyes open, wide and dilated with fear, but she drew a half-gasping breath, and then she kissed back.—

 

            --“John, are you sulking?”

            “What?  No, of course I’m not sulking.”

            “You haven’t said a thing all evening.”

            John glanced over at Sherlock, who lay sprawled across the couch, his long legs hooked over the end, his robe gaping open slightly.  It didn’t look as if he was wearing anything underneath, John noticed, and quickly looked away again.

            “I’ve been writing up your latest case on my blog,” he pointed out.

            “No, you haven’t.”

            “What—but I—“

            “You started to type it up, remembered the Official Secrets Act, and realized you couldn’t post it, which you’ve found mildly disappointing.”

            “I set it to private, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock rolled over onto his feet from the couch.  “Why would you bother writing it up if no one is going to be able to read it?”

            “Because I felt like it?  Because I’m used to it.  Because I _wanted_ to?  Why should it matter to you anyway?”  The way Sherlock was stalking across the room toward him made mad butterflies start up in his stomach, and he shoved them down.  He didn’t know why he’d suddenly started _noticing_ things about his flatmate, but he could, at the very least, pin down _when_ he’d become aware of it, and he tried not to think about what it said about him that he’d suddenly looked over at Irene batting her eyelashes at Sherlock and felt a quite unreasonable surge of jealousy.  Which, in fact, was what he’d been writing about, in the faint hopes that writing about it would make it more comprehensible.  Now he found himself helplessly following the lines of Sherlock’s angular form, clearly visible beneath the thin dressing-gown, and he only started guiltily and remembered at the very last minute to snap the laptop shut, before Sherlock could read what he’d been writing.

            Sherlock leaned forward critically, his face stopping only a centimeter away from John’s.  He lifted the hand John had used to close the laptop, sliding his long, nimble fingers down the inside of John’s wrist.  John almost forgot how to breathe.

            “Pulse elevated,” murmured Sherlock.  “Pupils dilated.  I must remember to thank Irene for quite an education in the matters of human sexuality.”

            “What?” John stammered, and Sherlock kissed him.—

 

_\--It’s funny how the world’s tapestry tries to reassert itself, poor, silly, little world.  The world turned inside out, and John was caught in the middle, in between, the world tearing at him, pushing him and pulling him from timeline to timeline, reassertion impossible—_

\--He gasped, and he was back, Sherlock’s lips stilled, clumsily, against his own.  “You can speak now, if you’d like, John.  That _was_ the point of the exercise,” Sherlock murmured against his skin, even though John was about ninety percent sure that it actually hadn’t been, not at all.

            “I—can you tell what I’m saying, like this?”

            “Yes,” breathed Sherlock.  He raised his hands and laid them gingerly on John’s wings.

            “Th-that feels—“ _Indescribable._

            “You’re going to have to speak, if you want me to understand what you’re saying.”  Sherlock’s voice was rough with amusement, but there was a touch of hesitance as well, and something else that John couldn’t quite identify.  He seemed entirely content to keep his lips pressed chastely against John’s, their only movement when he spoke.  John shut his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of Sherlock’s soft lips on his own.  _Safe_.  Sherlock was safe, maybe not forever ( _certainly not forever_ ), but for now, he was alive, and he was safe, and he was so close…

            John gently took control of the kiss, sliding a hand up to the back of Sherlock’s head to direct him.  “Are you sure you want me to talk?” he murmured, as he moved his lips across Sherlock’s.

            Sherlock went rigid in his arms, shocked, clumsy, as if he’d never—

            John’s eyes widened.  “Sherlock, have you never—“

            Sherlock’s voice was gruff when he answered (and wasn’t it a nice feeling, to have him answering John directly).  “I always want you to talk, John, and it…never seemed important.  Before.”

            “Oh,” John breathed, and he laughed.  “You know, it might just be the adrenaline, we’ve nearly been killed…”

            He felt Sherlock’s lips slide into a smirk against his, Sherlock’s hands trace exquisitely gently down over his wings, and he whimpered and jerked a little.

            “No,” Sherlock said slowly.  “Do give me some credit, John.  While I agree that the adrenaline may have had a hand in _prompting_ this to happen at this particular time, I can assure you I’ve never had an urge to do this before.  I’ve been in many dangerous situations near Inspector Lestrade, for instance.”

            _Oh, hell._   John stopped holding back, letting his tongue slide gently across Sherlock’s lower lip. 

            “ _God_ ,” Sherlock whispered, his voice dropping deep and low.  “I’m so _close_ to you, John, I want to _know_ you, I want to see you, I don’t want to just see the space in the world you leave behind…”

            He surged up on his knees and shuffled forward, wrapping his arms around John until they were pressed together, chest to chest, Sherlock’s legs straddling his lap.  John felt his wings moving forward (hadn’t even realized they could do that) to encircle Sherlock completely, shielding him, cutting off the rest of the world.  The feathers rustled slightly, and then John’s mouth was pressing harder against Sherlock’s, and he was moaning slightly.  Sherlock tasted vaguely of disinfectant, but also of something else, something sweeter.  He opened his mouth to John’s insistent tongue; John’s hands tangled in his hair.

            “John,” Sherlock gasped, pulling back, and John felt his heart leap into his throat.  He must have tensed against Sherlock, because the other man hastened to continue.  “Don’t worry,” he said, and John thought how strange it was to hear reassurances out of the mouth of the self-proclaimed sociopath.  “I merely…I wanted to point that I’ve never—I’m not particularly experienced in this…area.”

            John swooped forward to catch Sherlock’s mouth and say against it, “You prat, that’s fine.  It’s all fine, I don’t mind.”

            “I just thought—you should know.”  Sherlock sounded suddenly young and naked and almost vulnerable. 

            John let it go, pretended not to hear the tone of voice, and said firmly, “Now I know.  Where were we?”

            Sherlock’s voice dropped again, the low bass rumble that sent shivers down John’s spine.  “Somewhere around here, I should think,” he said, and this time his tongue slid out and teased at John’s mouth.  John moaned and rocked against him, heat pooling downwards in his groin, trapped against the lovely warmth between Sherlock’s thighs.  _Oh, God._   Sherlock made an absolutely beautiful, indescribable noise, and John pulled back himself for an instant, his hand dropping between Sherlock’s legs to cup at his erection, watching the ascetic, androgynous face tip back, the full lips part, the flush building high on those pointed cheekbones ( _Sherlock would make a far better angel than I do_ ), and marveling (secretly thankful that he could see Sherlock, at least—no wonder this was driving him mad)…

            There was a discreet, panicked little cough.  John’s hand stilled; Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.  _Oh shit.  Molly._   John felt himself heating up right to his ears.  He carefully took his hand away from Sherlock’s crotch and unfurled his wings, leaving Sherlock himself a little dazed and very obviously aroused.  At which point John realized that _since Molly could see him_ , he had, in fact, been blocking most of her view of the proceedings.  At least he’d taken his hand away _before_ doing that.

            Molly made a squeaking noise that sounded like, “Sorry!”  She was backed against the parapet at the other side of the roof; her face was beet-red.

            “No, oh God, sorry, that was…” John started giggling a little.  “I, um, I forgot you were there…”  He trailed off, realizing how awful that sounded.  “I mean, I…”

            Sherlock pursed his lips together.  “I’m sure John is apologizing enough for both of us,” he said stiffly, getting to his feet and stalking across the roof, where he started apparently playing with the door, probably trying to get it to open somehow. 

            The next few minutes were excruciating.  Sherlock refused to look at anyone (well, he refused to look at Molly, and he judiciously ignored the space he was clearly fairly certain John was taking up), and John got to his feet and tried to ignore his raging erection, which he was fairly certain was horribly, horribly obvious to Molly (and for _fuck’s sake_ , he was an angel, was this even supposed to _happen_ anymore?), and Molly sat on the edge of the roof with her arms wrapped around her legs and her face hidden.

            After several minutes, it was becoming increasingly evident that Sherlock was not going to have any luck with the door (and was now hammering on it with his fists, an irritation probably triggered as much by the current condition he was in as the fact the door wasn’t opening).  It was also getting cold very, very quickly, and the wind was picking up; John didn’t think it would have been safe for him to fly them down even if he’d felt perfectly all right, which he still didn’t.  On the plus side, the cold air was doing a fairly good job of making the _other_ difficulty disappear.  All the same, all three of them were going to be _extraordinarily_ cold if they didn’t do something about it ( _why can I feel cold?_   _Why is everything inconvenient about being alive still so…so existent!)_  

            John sighed.  “I think we’d better get all get close together,” he said.  “It’s getting very cold, and I don’t want either of you becoming hypothermic.”

            Molly looked up from hands that were already bluing with cold.  Her face went red, then white.  “Oh, um, oh, that seems like a good plan.”

            “ _What_ seems like a good plan?” Sherlock snapped, looking up.  His eyes raked up and down Molly, who was shivering and making her way across the roof toward John.  “Oh, no.  No, there will be absolutely _no_ sharing of warmth.  I refuse to be part of some kind of ridiculous literary cliché.”

            “J-j-john’s worried about us getting h-h-hypothermia,” Molly replied, her teeth clacking noisily together.

            “I don’t care,” Sherlock said firmly.  “There is absolutely nothing you can say that will make me engage in this ridiculous farce.”

            John rolled his eyes and crossed to Sherlock, who noticed his footsteps immediately, of course.  He lifted Sherlock’s wrist to his lips.  “I’m supposed to be guarding you,” he pointed out.  Sherlock’s eyes went wide at the contact, his pupils dilating almost instantly.  “Would you prefer Morse?” John asked, a little mocking.

            “That’s fine, thank you, John.  Try not to embarrass poor Miss Hooper any more than you can help, if you would.”

            “Listen, you _arse._ I’m freezing my bum off here.”

            “You’re an _angel_ ,” Sherlock said accusatorily.

            “An angel who _sleeps_ ,” John pointed out.

            “And does _not_ eat.”

            “Look, I’m bloody cold, all right!  And so is poor Molly!”  _And so are you,_ he added mentally.

            Sherlock was beginning to look slightly murderous, but he clearly saw the logic in John’s words.  “ _Fine_ ,” he snarled eventually.  “But I hope neither of you fidgets in your sleep, or I will be throwing you over the roof at some point before morning.”

            “I was going to offer to sleep in the middle,” John said mildly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

            “Really, John.  Occasionally your idiocy is staggering.  You cannot touch Molly; ergo the two of you cannot _be touching_.  Ergo, there is only one person here who is _qualified_ to sleep in the middle.”

            Damn him, he was right, of course.  John mentally revised down his estimate of the amount of sleep he was likely to get.  Poor Molly looked as if she was about to start crying.  John sighed.  “Sorry, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock made another huffing sound of displeasure.  “As I said, I’m amenable, as long as neither of you fidgets.”

            ‘Amenable’ might have been an overstatement, John thought irritably, as they shifted and rearranged, trying to come to some sort of position that was comfortable for everybody.  The wings most assuredly did not help.  If he could have been in the middle, he might have curled them around both Molly and Sherlock, but as it was, he ended up having to lie mostly on his stomach, one wing folded onto his back, the other spread across Sherlock.  He could have folded that one as well, but he suspected it would keep in more warmth that way, and, to be honest, he found it just a little amusing to hear Sherlock complaining loudly about feathers tickling his nose.  Then Molly had absolutely _refused_ to lie down until Sherlock said, “While I’m sure your frozen corpse would be aesthetically interesting, Molly, I’d rather not have to drag it down four flights of stairs in the morning,” which she took as an invitation (it was probably as close as Sherlock could get to being welcoming).

            Once everybody had managed to arrange themselves in a reasonable approximation of a comfortable position (which involved at least three minutes of thrashing on Sherlock’s part; Molly didn’t complain, but John eventually put a stop to it because he feared she’d get a concussion, and Sherlock sulkily subsided, John found himself falling asleep surprisingly quickly, despite the cold and the fact that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to cuddle and kept managing to press angular bits of himself uncomfortably into John.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The name "Sherlock" is generally taken to come from scir-lock, meaning "bright-hair." "John" comes from "God is gracious" and "Abigail" means "My Father is joy."


End file.
